I was thinking today about how limited my life is lately.
That's because I am old I suppose. Seventy is old, right?
I think so anyway. Last year I had my first visit to a hospital,
had my first operation. For a new knee. It was riddled with rust,
or something like that. Arthritis, I guess they call it. My knee
was replaced with a half-steel, half-plastic one. And later that year
I had a heart attack and I had seven stints put inside my chest.
That's a lot for a first timer, they tell me. I quit smoking after that.
For fifty-six years I had smoked and I must admit I enjoyed
every minute of it, but they told me to stop. It was for my own good,
they said. So I did. Yet, now because there are times like right now,
I wonder why I am here doing what I am doing which is not much.
And I wonder: is life that precious? I used to do all the things I
see others doing right now that I can't do. Things, like running
or just walking fast. I see them working, being useful. I see them
enjoying the comforts of life that were once mine like fishing and
golfing. I see them finding contentment in their lives. And that is good.
So what is it that I am complaining about? Or am I not complaining?
I don't think so. I was just thinking about how limited my life is lately.
J. D. Heskin
If you've any thoughts about this poem, J. D. Heskin would like to hear them.